Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Suspended
by darcyfarrow
Summary: For @a-monthly-rumbelling, March prompt: Best friends to lovers. In this continuation of my WIP, "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle," Rumple's matchmaking efforts pay off in unexpected ways when his caretaker Cerise is suspended from her job.


It's half past eleven and all the good residents of Arbor on the Bae are tucked tidily into their beds in their absurdly decorated rooms (Blue's still chewing over ideas to get out of that mess and restore our Home to its former simple, comfortable beauty without attracting attention from the media). The human staff went home hours upon hours ago, leaving the usual android night staff. I've managed to stay behind in my office, claiming to meet a midnight deadline on a state report—not exactly a lie, though I may have intentionally accidentally forgotten to write the report earlier in the week when I should have. My phone whispers and a familiar face appears in its screen, a wool cap pulled down around the ears and the coat collar turned up to shield the neck against the winter wind. The eyes dance, though, and a smile predicts impending mischief—not too much mischief, though: the smiler is, after all, a respected member of the community.

I meet him at the back door. I don't have to ask if he brought it: he opens his coat to show me. I nod in satisfaction and pull at his sleeve, urging him in. He tucks his gift back under his coat, aware of the security cameras installed throughout the building; for the cameras' sake, he carries a folder bearing the bank's logo. If we are asked, we'll claim that Mr. Gold had phoned him this evening, asking him to bring the original of Mr Gold's will, and that won't be a complete lie. Why would an immortal need a will, most of the staff won't think to ask. Silently, me on my rubber heels and he in his stocking feet, having left his boots at the back door, we slip down the corridors.

Mr. Gold is sitting at his tea table, fully dressed. He's been expecting us, and not for the officially requested will. I lock the door behind us. By his own insistence going back to when he first moved in, there are no security cameras in Mr. Gold's room, as there are in the other residents'. Jo opens his coat to reveal his gift, and Gold grins. He flicks his fingers toward the tea table, where the copper teapot and three china cups await. Reading the eagerness in his client's eyes, Jo doesn't take the time to remove his coat: he immediately pours a finger's width in each cup. "I'm afraid I'll need a little assistance," Gold murmurs and Jo hands me one of the cups, then picks up the remaining two. More distinctly, Gold declares, "A toast. To the unidentified sender of that package of articles detailing Ms. Keres' multiple divorce settlements. May her new husband read them in good health."

Jo's cheeks turn red, and it's not just from the change in temperature. He's faithful in keeping secrets, but it's a good thing he's never taken up poker. He clinks the two cups against mine, I salute him and take a triumphant sip as he presses one of the cups to Mr. Gold's lips. When Gold draws back, his cheeks vibrating as he swishes the whiskey around in his mouth, Jo takes a sip for himself. The three of us sigh simultaneously.

Jo and I wait for Gold to swallow and pronounce the goldie good. "Another toast," I suggest. "To partners in crime." Warmth spreads through me, and not just from the whiskey. I have a few friends, mostly from college (none of whom know what I really am), but I've never had partners before. My shoulders suddenly drop and for the first time in my life, I feel I can let down my guard; someone else has got my back.

"To partners in crime," my companions echo, and second sips follow.

"Aaahh." Relaxed now, Gold manages to take the cup himself and hold it steady, though he can't lift it to his lips; Jo has to do that for him, guiding Gold's hand as a third toast is declared in honor of Mr. McCutcheon, though none of us knows that worthy's first name.

Jo tips his cup toward me, inviting me to look in; I see it's empty, and so is mine and so is Gold's. He slides his eyes toward the bottle, waiting open on the table, then raises an eyebrow at me. Gold, tilting his cup, has just realized the same thing and his mouth purses, but he won't ask; we have an unspoken agreement: one wee dram of a night, no more, lest it interfere with his medications. He could argue with me and he'd be right—he's an immortal; what harm can a second drink do? But he also recognizes the sweetness of anticipation, and something more important than the taste of whiskey: the excuse the whiskey gives us to meet again tomorrow night. He glances from the bottle to Dove to me and I nod, catching his unvoiced question. I know Gold's wondering, not just whether Dove should be invited back tomorrow night to help us finish off the bottle he provided, but whether we should draw Dove further into the partnership.

I hesitate. It's not that I don't trust Dove; certainly I do; he's proven himself to me as well as to Gold. It's just that if I permit the invitation to be extended, I'll be sharing with Dove these quiet conversations with Mr. Gold. Things will change. They might get better, but they will change. Unless, of course, Dove declines the invitation.

I'm about to answer when the door to Mr. Gold's room slides open. Dove and I swing about to face a startled, then perplexed, Andy. "The door was—I had to override the—" Then the android spots the bottle. He doesn't have to ask what that is: the label announces it.

Andy's eyes course up to mine. If he weren't an android, I'd swear he feels guilty and embarrassed and deeply disappointed in me. He waits for me to explain, but I'm caught; no lie can get me out. When I say nothing, he states the obvious: "I'll have to mention this in my report to Blue. I'm sorry."

"This is my fault," Gold tries. "I persuaded—I _manipulated_ her into permitting the contraband to be brought in."

Andy bends to cap the bottle and scoop it up. "I'll have to confiscate this."

"I'm responsible," Gold insists, but Andy ignores him, bowing his head at Dove. "I'll have to ask you to leave, sir. It's after hours."

"I was the one who brought it in," Dove speaks up. "I'll come by tomorrow and explain everything to Blue."

"No." I'm alarmed now. If she blames Dove, Blue can get him fired; she has influence in this town. If she blames Gold, she can suspend his privileges: his right to travel beyond these walls, his right to use the phone—oh god, his right to use the holodeck. That would crush him, if she takes his family away like that. "No, it was my idea; it's my responsibility to enforce the rules. I shouldn't—"

But Andy isn't persuadable. I know that; androids are programmed that way. Andy is already escorting Dove from the room. I glance over my shoulder at Gold. "I'm sorry." I don't know what else to say.

"Let me take the hit," he offers. "There's nothing Blue can do to me. She can't afford to kick me out."

I just shake my head. "Partners don't turn on each other." Especially not if it means cutting one of them off from his family. Besides, it really is my fault. I'm the staffer here. "I'm sorry it turned out so crappy. I'll send Darwin in to help you to bed."

* * *

Ten minutes of fast talking first thing in the morning and Blue believes me: Dove, a visitor, can't be expected to know the House's rules; Gold, a patient, can't be held responsible. I alone can and should be blamed. Her action is swift: I'm suspended without pay for four weeks, beginning immediately, and my irresponsible behavior will be taken into account when, in six months, my new-employee probationary period comes up for review. I've violated two rules: allowing a visitor inside after hours and permitting alcohol to be brought in. "I can't write this off as a mistake of ignorance or inexperience," Blue states. "I am deeply disappointed." Her eyes snap at me as her voice remains cold. "Considering I raised you." The flash of temper is momentary, though. She presses a button on her desk. "I'll ask Dr. Hopper to fill in for you while you're gone. You're not to enter this building, or phone in, or take work home with you."

I suppose I should apologize. That would be the mature thing to do. But I stand there dumbly until she flicks her wrist at me. "You are dismissed. You may not say goodbye to the staff or residents."

My legs take me through the back door, through the slushy garden and to the alley that leads to Moncton Street. It's a mile to the convent, but my head is no clearer when I arrive. The convent is silent and devoid of life, everyone having gone off to work. I sit down on my narrow bed, then just as quickly I rise again and drag my suitcase from my closet. I don't know where I'll go, but I won't stay here. I toss my clothes into the suitcase and walk out.

* * *

I'm wandering. I'm not even aware of the traffic around me, the snowy mud sucking at my shoes, the wind seeping in through my open coat, the overstuffed suitcase pulling my shoulder from its socket. I'm just walking, physically and emotionally numb, until a dog's warning bark sinks into my consciousness and I become aware of everything all at once. Anger gushes up like bile from the pit of my stomach, but I can't decide who I'm mad at: Blue for not giving me a chance to explain (not that I had a valid reason: "to give Mr. Gold something small to look forward to, some small sense of control over his life" makes sense to me, would make sense to Amy Hopper, but would butter no parsnips with Blue); Andy for reporting me (he had no choice; his programming forces him to report every problem; and he had the decency to appear to regret his actions); Dove for bringing the whiskey in (at my request—no, Dove has no guilt in this); Gold for starting it all to begin with, by requesting a bottle for Christmas (really? Can I begrudge a man a wee drop, after fifty years of abiding by the House rules and having no control over his own body, let alone his life? Blue could begrudge him, but not me. Not his partner his crime.). Blame the House board for imposing such puritanical rules upon _adults_ , people who, until a few years ago, ran the businesses, the schools, the government, the churches in this town; people who raised the children and built the buildings and—people who, not too long ago, diapered the bottoms and wiped the noses of these same board members. What gratitude is that? So now suddenly, because they can't walk as well as they used to, because they forget things like turning off the stove or reciting their own phone numbers or name the president, now they have to be supervised, regulated, controlled like infants? Allow them _some_ choice, some dignity, some respect, for gods' sake!

I'm trembling. Cold or anger, I don't know, but I need to sit down. I find a bus bench and drop down onto it, releasing the suitcase and flexing my fingers to ease the stiffness from them. Yeah, I've gone overboard in my anger. I've crossed over into temper tantrum territory. In a few minutes I'll calm down, come back to center, and then I can start to identify the problems now facing me and begin to find solutions. But I need to allow myself to vent first.

I button my coat and hunker down into it, watching the 8:50 traffic rush by. In five minutes all these vehicles will park themselves and the owners will scurry to their workplaces, the security systems reading their eyeballs, identifying them as admissables, then unlocking for them. In ten minutes the front doors will unlock for customers. Drones will be sent out to make deliveries in response to shopping orders that come in electronically. Seventy percent of business is done this way, but owners have learned that people still like to come into the shops themselves, touch the merchandise and chat with other customers. For some people, shopping is the only excuse they have for getting out of the house.

I should be at my desk right now, ordering repairs on the treadmill that Tiny broke yesterday, planning something for Mr. Smee's birthday (no one else will remember him and he'll be so hurt), monitoring the holodeck schedule (Mr. Herman's been spending an inordinate amount of time alone in there. What's he up to?). I'm angry that I'm not where I should be, but mostly, I'm angry that I'm not _who_ I should be: a level-headed, responsible employee who realizes that by breaking the rules for one resident, I'm doing a disservice for the others. Not that Amy won't take good care of them in my absence, but she only knows them through my reports, and she doesn't love them like I do.

And I do. A chill sweeps up from my toes as I realize that. I need them just as much as they need me. All of them, in differing degrees and differing ways.

A shadow falls across my lap and I jerk back to the present. Someone crosses behind me and sits down beside me. "Sorry if I startled you." Before I can answer, Jo blurts, "I'm sorry for the trouble I caused you. I heard what happened. I never should have brought that whiskey in. I tried calling Blue but she won't pick up for me—I guess she's mad, so I'll give her a little more time and try again. If I—"

"Jo," I interrupt. "Stop. It's my fault. Stop apologizing and stop trying to fix things. She's right. I deserve this punishment. I need it. It'll remind me, next time I feel rebellious, that I need to look at the long-range consequences of my actions."

He frowns, formulating a denial, but I pat his knee. "It's okay. It's just for four weeks, and then I'll go back, lesson learned, and things will be okay." I change the subject so he won't dwell on his complicity in the crime. "How did you find out, anyway?"

"Mr. Gold. Andy told him. And when I called the House, Andy picked up. Andy said Mr. Gold's righteous anger was a sight to be hold: he went rolling into the staff dining room, interrupting Blue's coffee break, like he was storming the beaches of Normandy."

"Andy's been reading a lot of American history lately," I shrug.

"Yeah, well, Mr. Gold slammed his fist onto the dining table, making Blue's coffee cup rattle and scaring her out of ten years' growth—"

"That's Andy again, trying to sound human by using cliches." Then a new thought strikes me. "Imagine that. Mr. Gold working up the strength to make a fist. He'll be hurting this afternoon. I hope Andy takes him for physical therapy so he doesn't stiffen up."

"He insisted she revoke the suspension. Threatened to move out and take his money with him, if she doesn't."

"He can't do that."

"No, he can't move out. Not unless a judge alters the court order. Which could happen, I suppose, if Mr. Gold petitions for it. But he'd have to prove he had somewhere else to go, someone else to take care of him."

"Do you think he'd get mad enough to do all that?"

"He might. He's not an impetuous man, but when he gets a burr under his saddle. . . ."

"Yeah. You'll talk him out of it, won't you? You know how this would end."

Jo nods. "Him, alone in a house, except for a hired caretaker."

"He really needs people around him, as much as he complains about their noise and their prying."

"Even Mr. Gold needs people in his life." Jo glances at me and I can't guess what he's thinking. "Everyone does."

"You'll talk him in off the ledge, won't you?"

"I'll make him see that he'll do you more good if he stays and fights Blue."

We both chuckle over that. He motions to the suitcase. "You're moving out. Not leaving town, I hope?"

"No. Just moving out of the convent. It started as running away from home, but now that I've calmed down—I still think it's for the best. I need to grow up."

"Is that all you have? Do you need to go back for more?"

"Yeah. I left most of my stuff behind. Including your painting."

"I'll help you move. Where are you going?"

"I don't know yet." I blush. Gold may not be impetuous, but I am. "I didn't think it through."

"Come to my office. I manage Mr. Gold's rental properties. I'm sure we have something in your price range." He stands, picking up my suitcase. "I can move you in today."

"Thanks. That's very generous." I rise, realizing for the first time that I barely come up to his shoulder.

"That's what friends are for."

A burr of a thought pokes and itches at the back of my brain, but I choose to ignore it. I have friends. I'm soon to have a place of my own, where I can play my music as loud as I want, paint the walls if I want, stay up as late as I want (after all, I don't have to get up to go to work tomorrow, do I?). I have choices now; I'll even have choices in living quarters; Jo is describing three places that are currently vacant. "The one I think that would be the best match for you is a furnished one-bedroom in Camelot Courts. It's a great starter home, close to everything and only five hundred credits a month, with a two hundred deposit. That should fit your budget comfortably."

He shoots a sideways glance at me, a little embarrassed about having revealed to me that he knows how much money I make, but I'm not disturbed by that: as the vice-president of the only bank in town, he no doubt has a pretty clear idea of everyone's income. In a way, it kind of makes my life easier; he's already aware of my financial limitations and will adjust his suggestions accordingly, saving me some embarrassment and disappointment later on. He's already aware—

That's when the burr bites. He's aware, but I'm not. I've never had to pay rent before. Rent and utilities and whatever else—I'm not even sure whatever else comes with tenancy. My steps falter and slow. Suddenly aware that he's a yard ahead of me, he pauses to let me catch up, a frown forming. "Cerise? What's wrong?"

A dozen answers cram into my brain, demanding release: I went on holiday in Mexico and dipped into my savings for that and I have student loans and I only just started my job six months ago and I haven't had enough paychecks yet to set much aside and I'm suspended without pay.

It's crass to talk about your personal finances with a friend, I've been taught. It's dumb to talk about your lack of money with a guy you think you'd like to date: might as well hang a "gold-digger" sign above your head. So soon on the heels of Daeva Keres, I don't want Jo thinking I'm eyeing him as a prospective meal ticket. But he's my banker and soon to be my landlord, and I should be honest with him, and besides, I'm not so good at faking my emotions.

I've seen this before in my college friends' relationships. He's going to write me off as irresponsible and wasteful, walk off shaking his head and mumbling that Blue's right about my immaturity. Or, worse, he's going to fix it all for me, and that will set the pattern for our relationship from now on: I'll be the maiden in distress, he'll be the white knight, and that's all I'll ever be to him, a little more flighty, a little more ignorant than he is, a lot more helpless. A user.

I can't tell him.

He walks back, taking my hand. It's a bold move for him, but done unconsciously. "Cerise?"

"I'm fine," I brush the burrs aside. "Just kind of overwhelmed by it all, I suppose."

The concern in his face vanishes. "I can see how it would be. Are you thinking you might want to go back to the convent?"

"No." Not if I can figure out another way to solve my money problems. I can't sit across the dinner table from Blue any more, at least, not today.

"It's a big step, and all at once." He grabs another idea out of thin air. "Hey, let's get brunch at Granny's. Talk it over, and then you decide what to do next. My treat."

Is he asking me as a new client or as a friend—or is this a date? Maybe it's just because, as a banker, he knows my financial situation. Maybe it's just because he feels a little guilty about his part in my suspension. Or maybe he's just looking out for me, as he promised Mr. Gold. But we have brunch and he talks about his own trials with living alone after his parents retired to Minnesota, making me laugh with his stories of his blunders ("I punched the wrong buttons and ended up ordering the house to wash my pots and pans in the clothes washer, roast the beef in the dishwasher, and send my laundry to the grocers. I totally confused Mr. Clark but I had the cleanest Yankee pot roast in town that week.") Then we get serious and he answers all my questions about my responsibilities as a tenant and as an independent adult. The deeper we go into the details, the freer I feel to ask him anything: he doesn't criticize my ignorance, he doesn't pass judgment on me, he doesn't laugh at me. As reluctant as I am to admit my poor planning, I figure I have no choice: as soon as we start filling out a lease, he'll have to bring up my account records and then he'll know. I blurt, "Jo, my pay's been suspended too."

He runs a hand over his mouth. "Okay. Let's see what we've got to work with then." He scoots over to my side of the booth, his arm brushing against mine as he presses his tie clasp. "Computer, account records for individual account holder Cerise Fée."

In mid-air a blue frame appears, within which are dozens of cells of numbers. His fingers dance and a single number appears: "That's what you have in the bank right now." His fingers dance again to bring up a set of columns. "And these are your auto-pays—your student loans and your credit card—amounts and due dates. So when we subtract, here's what's left. We'll need to figure in money for food, utilities, a little bit for miscellaneous." He points to a single figure: "That's what we've got for rent. Now, the lease requires a security deposit and one month's rent in advance, but if I set up your rent payments for auto-pay, I can waive the deposit. Leaving. . . ." He pushes the final number wide so we can see it better, then he sits back and pulls at his lower lip as we examine that lonely, fragile little number.

I've never paid rent before, but even I realize that weak number can't hold up the smallest of apartments, not even in the shadier part of town. "I think I'm going to have to go back to the convent."

He swipes the records away, then orders his computer to bring up a list of vacancies in Gold Properties, Inc. With additional finger dancing, he sets the search criteria, then reads through the results, his lips moving silently. Twice he snaps his fingers and the image of an apartment appears. He dismisses the first one immediately, but at the image of the second, he gestures with an open palm. "There. It's tiny, just an unfurnished studio apartment and it looks out over an alley, but it's in a good location."

"I can rent it for a year and save up for something bigger." I give his arm a congratulatory squeeze. "Can we see it today?"

He grins down at me. "We can move you in today, if you choose it."

"I can think of no better way to spend my afternoon."

By five o'clock I'm pressing my eye up against the security panel of a 200-square-foot apartment on Moncton and First Avenue. The system scans my irises, takes a sample of my voice and makes a record of me, and like that I'm now the rightful occupant of this little home above the candy shop, which I don't mind at all. It's two blocks from the library, three blocks from Granny's in the other direction, half-a-mile to the Home. . . and a mile from Dove's house, where we seem to spend a lot of time at first.

It makes sense. I need linens and dishes: he has them in abundance, left over from the old days when this house was full of family and now they're just gathering dust. A loan, he claims; he's sure at some point I'll want to choose my own patterns and colors, something modern. He loans me a futon as well; it's just been sitting in his parents' former bedroom, gathering dust. And in the first days of my independence, I have no money to stock my pantry, so he just naturally invites me to stay for dinner; it pleases him, he claims, to have someone to bake for. It pleases me to have someone to talk to as I try to sort my life out. I alternate between confusion and giddiness: I've never had choices before. Everything, from the posters on my bedroom wall to the schools I attended to the career path I followed, had been selected for me even before I was created.

I suppose, if not for the financial boundaries and Jo's gentle common-sense guidance, I would have gone a little wild in assembling my household—or I might just as easily gone the opposite direction, adding nothing at all to the décor that was already provided. When it's finally all done and we flop down on the couch to admire our handiwork, Jo confesses that he's found as much freedom in the experience as I have: he's never had such choices either. He inherited his house, his job, his community and everything in them. When he leaves after dinner, he looks a little lost, his mission completed with no new one to follow, until I blurt out that I've always wanted to learn how to paint and could he spare the time to teach me, someday? Then he suggests Saturday, if I'm free, and he nods when I suggest we make an early start because I want to watch the sun rise over Mills Lake and I've always heard that's the best time to catch trout and why not fish and paint at the same time? Then he beams as if I've just presented him the world on a silver platter, as I suspect that I have, fishing and painting and companionship being his ideal world.

* * *

I stop wondering after that. The rest comes without thought, without analysis or reflection or premeditation. It comes as easily as sunset follows a day of fishing and painting. It comes as easily as pizza follows an invitation to watch movies at my new apartment. It comes as easily as cuddling follows the sharing of an umbrella in the walk in the rain. It comes as easily as my sharing with him the research I'd been doing for my gift for Mr. Gold, and Jo's excitement in realizing he can fill in the gaps with letters and legal documents exchanged between his family and the Golds. It comes as easily as a kiss follows "thank you" as he leans over my shoulder to show me a birth announcement containing the name I've been searching for.

"Josiah." We're both glowing as we read the pretty little greeting card. "They named him Josiah Gideon Rosales."

But Jo isn't finished with the surprises. He calls out to his house, "Play the clip." His computer system plays a recording from SBM-News: "—expedition, led by Colonel Alaina 'Buzz' Aldrin and Interplanetary Transport System chief engineer Joey Rosales, is scheduled to arrive on March 1. A bill proposing statehood for the new colony, named Musk City, has already been introduced in Congress. Press '1' for an interview with the bill's co-sponsors. Press '2' for an interview with Colonel Aldrin. Press '3' for an interview with NASA administrator—" The clip leaps ahead as Jo presses a button on his wall panel, and then we see a gray-haired woman introducing the next clip: "—took time from his busy schedule to speak with Storybrooke News for a few minutes. Although he has never visited our town, having been born and raised in Texas, he says he feels a special connection with the community." The image flashes to a young, dark-eyed man holding an old-fashioned clipboard. 'Well, I was named for two of Storybrooke's residents: my great-uncle, the engineer Gideon Gold—"

"We remember him very well here," the interviewer interjects. "The high school was named for him."

"He died when I was a teenager but he was the one who got me excited about space exploration. He gave me my first rocket-building kit when I was five. When we got it assembled, he asked where I wanted to go with it, and I said, 'Mars.' I think it wouldn't surprise him a bit that that's where we're going tomorrow."

My breath catches in my throat. "Oh, Mr. Gold, look what's come to be, when you and Belle decided to trust each other." I squint closely at the blurry engineer, wondering what more he will accomplish—what his children will someday become.

Joey Rosales is continuing, "And my first name came from another Storybrooker, not as well known, but still an important figure in the Gold side of the family: Josiah Dove. He worked for my great-grandfather and was almost an uncle to Joy and Gideon as they were growing up."

I reach back over my shoulder to squeeze Jo's hand. "All that the Golds have done, they owe to your family too."

He seems quite pleased about this. His family's never won any awards, unless it was for fishing, and never had much recognition even in their own town, but I have no doubt that Gid and Joy and all the generations of Golds now and to come would not have achieved so much—might not have even been born—if a Dove hadn't stuck by Mr. Gold's side. Including this Mr. Dove.

"This is what I've been looking for. Now I can finish my project." He knows that already, but he needs to hear it. "Once again, a Dove was instrumental in uniting the Gold family."

"Well, that's probably a bit exaggerated." He's easily embarrassed—that's one of the things I like about him. What does he like about me, I wonder.

The interviewer continues, "We've heard from President Clegg what the nation hopes to accomplish with Musk City. What do you personally hope for?"

"A chance to start again," Joey answers promptly. "To correct the mistakes we made: the political ones as well as the environmental ones. We must recognize that Mars has its own unique challenges and opportunities, and we humans are just blips on the screen of its history. It's us who has to adapt to it, not the other way around. The 'conquer and control' mentality failed our ancestors; we realize that now. The universe is not ours; we belong to it. I guess, to me, Mars is a chance to apologize, a quest for forgiveness."

"A most spiritual perspective from an engineer. Good luck with tomorrow's mission, Dr. Rosales."

"Thank you."

As Joey starts to walk away, Jo presses the "hold" command to freeze the clip.

I make a note. "I'm going to ring up NASA, find out how I can get a message to Josiah Gideon Gold."

"Rosales," Jo corrects. He traces his finger along the growing family tree I've drawn. "Joy's son Zachary Gold-Langston married Joaquin Rosales and Joey is their son. And that's it, the end of the Gold line, for the moment."

"The last Gold child." I stare in awe at the image frozen on Jo's kitchen wall. Yes, I'm certain of it: I see Mr. Gold in Joey's mysterious dark eyes; I see Belle French in Joey's determined chin. More importantly, I hear Gold in Joey's philosophical outlook and I hear Belle in Joey's stubborn optimism. He will agree to talk to me for his great-grandfather's sake, I'm sure of it. That is, if NASA will subsidize the rather expensive phone call.

* * *

I'm in the library, reading up on the Golds. I thought I'd like to flesh out my research with some stories. Well, that and I just don't have much to do until I go back to work. I come across a newspaper headline that I think I know the story behind: "Mr. Gold Arrested in Late Night Arson Incident." But then I zero in on the word _arson_ and I realize this has nothing to do with the beating of Moe French that occurred at Valentine's Day of 2012. I home in on the article.

"Prominent businessman and landlord Mr. Gold was arrested early yesterday but released after charges were dropped by order of Mayor Mills. Neither the mayor nor Mr. Gold would provide comment.

"According to the police blotter, Gold was arrested at 2:45 a.m. yesterday on charges of arson in regards to an incident occurring at Mills Lake. In his fishing cabin at the west edge of the lake, Gold was arrested for setting fires to trees and brush. Fire Chief Schulman told the police that 'at least four, possibly more' small fires had been set, destroying most of the pine trees and buttonbushes on the two-acre property that has been owned by Gold since the founding of Storybrooke in 1983.

"Although the land is private property, city ordinances require that a permit be obtained and any burning must take place under Fire Department supervision. Burning of dead brush to clear the land is a common practice, but 'this burning was unauthorized and therefore considered illegal,' Chief Schulman said. Furthermore, most of the trees and brush that were destroyed were deemed healthy. 'This seems to be a random act,' Schulman said. 'The fires were started by magic.'

"'A magical temper tantrum,' said a source who wished to remain anonymous. 'Like the world did something to offend him and he just punched back.' The extent of the damage was valued at $100,000.

"The fires were reported by a group of Cub Scouts out on a camping trip. Scoutmasters Archie Hopper, Tom Clark and David Nolan were awakened by the smell of burning at around 1 a.m. and notified the Fire Department. None of the Scouts were harmed in the incident.

"Mr. Gold, a founding father of Storybrooke, had moved to California with his wife Belle French several years ago, to be close to their grown children. Gold and Belle moved back to Storybrooke two years ago when she became ill.

"Ms. French-Gold died of renal disease three months ago."

Wow.

The _Mirror_ in those days had a reputation for inaccuracy. Did they get the story right? There are no follow-up reports. My curiosity burns, not so much for Gold's motives—I think they're obvious; he was grieving for the woman he had loved for half a century. If you know Gold, you know that's how he grieves: he acts out. Or did, until his body gave out on him. What I'm curious about is why Regina didn't take advantage of this opportunity to lock up her old frienemy one more time, for old times' sake.

I call Amy at her home that evening, at her home (so Blue can't accuse me of violating my suspension). She invites me over, and this time, I have something to bring her: a canister of Jo's new experimental blend. She's not much of an experimenter, but she might like it if I tell her it's Jo's creation. She knows Jo only slightly, through business dealings; she's been curious about him now that I've raised his name in conversation.

We sit down in her living room and she doesn't mince words. "I'm so glad you met someone," she says as she tastes the tea, then drowns it in milk. "It's good for you to get out more, socialize with people outside the profession. It'll broaden your outlook." She leans forward confidentially. "Besides, a lover is good for your blood pressure."

"Well, I wouldn't call him a—it's only been two weeks."

"I hope you'll make time for him after you go back to work." She peers at me. "I can see it's been good for you, the fishing and the painting and. . . other activities."

"He's a. . . good guy," I finish lamely. "Easy-going. Quiet and contemplative. He evens me out."

"I hope you'll continue to value those qualities. He's water to your fire. Don't become impatient with his thoughtfulness. Don't mistake his quietude for lack of passion."

It's good advice. I suppose I'll have occasion to recall it, if Jo and I make something more of this partnership we've started. "He's been a welcome distraction for me. I'd be pulling my hair out by now, if not for the fishing and painting and other activities. Whether it'll become something more, it's too soon to tell."

"I'm glad you see it that way. You're young, Cerise, and this is your first real romance."

"It's not a romance yet."

"I saw him at the bank yesterday. I'm seeing you now. It's a romance."

"We have time." I accept her caution. "It's a small town and neither of us is going anywhere." I cock my head. "Are we?"

"No," she chuckles. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still the right therapist for Arbor."

"One down, one to go."

"I'm working on Blue." She sips the tea, wrinkles her nose and sets the cup aside. "Have faith. We quiet ones can still be effective. Now, you said something about Mr. Gold and arson? I looked through my grandfather's video journals; Grandpa was Mr. Gold's therapist for a short while. I found some entries that explain a lot. I'm sharing them with you only because you're Mr. Gold's current therapist. The incident was so long ago it's not directly relevant; Mr. Gold's no longer capable of lighting a match, let alone burn down a forest with magic. But he had only two sessions with Grandpa after Belle died, and as far as we know, he never spoke to another therapist."

"Only two sessions to cope with a grief as deep as his," I mutter. Whatever made him quit so soon?

"Those sessions happened before the arson incident." Amy lets that thought sink in. "After the fireworks, Mr. Gold retreated to his cabin. Nothing was seen of him for more than a year. It seems Dove—your Jo's grandfather, I mean—did all of his business transactions and his shopping for him in those days. Then Joy and Gideon Gold returned, familes in tow, and lured him out of the cabin. He went to live with Gideon's family for a while before coming back to Storybrooke. Grandpa didn't know why he came back, but thinks it was because Belle was buried here."

"To find a way to reunite with Belle. Through magic, since holodecks hadn't been invented yet," I suggest. Then a bleaker thought strikes me. "Or through death."

"But he's immortal. It's impossible."

"They told him finding Baelfire again was impossible. They told him it was impossible for the Dark One to be happy. They told him no one could ever love him. Sometimes possibility is just a state of mind." I fold my hands. "We've talked about this. You know he sometimes expresses a wish to die."

"All geriatrics do. It may be stronger with him because it can never be more than a wish."

"For now." I finish off my tea and pour another cup.

"What I know of Mr. Gold from your reports and from these past two weeks, I'd say he's a person who's happiest when he's invested."

"Invested?"

"In a plan or a person." Amy taps her fingers on the couch's arm. "His body may be unusable, but his mind isn't. He's as clever and imaginative as ever. He's invested in you, but it's not enough to keep him working."

"Invested in me?"

"In getting you to pursue your magic. He thinks you aren't living up to your potential."

"That's my choice."

"You're correct. He understands that; he just hopes to change your mind. But he seems to be satisfied, for now, that you and Jo have befriended each other. I believe he thinks Jo will succeed where he hasn't."

"Jo's never said word one to me about magic."

"Maybe that's the best way to persuade you." Amy grins. "Give you a sense of security. Someone who'll catch you if you fall. Someone, unlike Blue, who'll forgive your mistakes as you're learning."

I snort. "Or maybe what I need, and what Jo gives me, is space to be whatever I choose to be. In other words, ordinary."

"Only time will tell." Amy goes into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When she returns, she's ready to return to our previous topic. "The journal entry I found that sheds the most light on the arson incident didn't come from Grandpa's sessions with Mr. Gold. It came from his sessions with another patient. That patient is no longer living, nor could I find any of her descendants to ask permission of. Still, I don't need to remind you, what I'm showing you is confidential, for professional purposes only."

The images are discolored and the sound interrupted by static as she summons the recording to her wall. A red-freckled, balded and bespectacled man faces the camera: "May 3, 2058. Therapist Archie Hopper. Patient Regina Mills." He then walks away from the camera. I can hear a door squeak open, his voice offering a greeting, a woman's voice answering. The woman is invited to sit and she does so on the couch. If this is Regina Mills, she must be in her 80's, I estimate, but who knows in Storybrooke. We long ago lost count of the number of curses the town has been under, some of them time-bending. Anyway, the woman who's straightening her skirt and crossing her long, slim legs is dark-haired, elegant, tastefully bejeweled and youthfully firm-bodied. I suspect her appearance is magically enhanced.

They talk casually for a few minutes, then Archie asks if she would like to discuss the "fire matter" of last weekend. She gives a crisp nod. "I did have a difficult decision to make. I'm not sure I did the right thing."

This sets me back. From everything I've read or heard, Regina Mills was never "not sure" about anything.

"After you called me, I called the fire department." Oh ho, so this is one of the facts the _Mirror_ got wrong. "As mayor, I had no choice. I was pretty sure he would stop the fires before they spread to town, but with a whole pack of Scouts witness to the incident, their parents would have had my job if I hadn't called in the fire department."

Archie urges her on. "And with the fire department comes the sheriff. Standard procedure."

"At least I had a few minutes alone with Gold before they arrived."

"What did he say?"

"Well, I walked up to him, as coolly as if we were strolling down Main Street. I didn't want to startle him." Regina uncrosses her legs and leans her elbows on her knees in concentration. "He was in the middle of forming a new fireball. He looked over his shoulder at me. He didn't seem surprised to see me. I suppose he smelled my magic as I approached him. 'What's up, Rumple?' I said. He just kept shaping that fireball. Then he wound up, like a baseball pitcher on the mound. 'You know that tree marks the boundary between my property and yours,' I said. 'You can burn all you want to, just stay on your side.' He didn't say anything, just threw the fireball, hit the tree dead-center and incinerated it.

"I pretended to remain calm and collected. 'You are going to clean up after yourself, aren't you? You know, your little tantrums have cost this city a fortune over the years.' He stood there panting; the magic had taken a lot out of him, he was so out of practice. 'You still have a cabin somewhere around here, don't you? Invite me in,' I demanded. 'And like a good houseguest, I'll bring wine.' I conjured a bottle of Duckhorn Merlot. One of his favorites. We went into his cabin and I lit a fire—in the fireplace, of course—I wouldn't trust him to it. And I sat him down and poured us both a full glass. It takes a lot to get the Dark One tipsy, you know. 'I've been where you are,' I said. 'Twice.'

"But he wouldn't let me go there. 'Don't tell me I can pick myself up again,' he said. 'Don't tell me she'd want me to carry on. I don't need any of those bullshit cliches.'

"'I wasn't going to,' I said. 'I was going to say, 'Every day it hurts. Some days it hurts like hell. Some days it hurts like half a hell.' It wasn't much comfort to know that everybody who's been in love goes through the same hell. There was nothing I could say to him that would help."

Archie agrees. "No, you're right. The best one person can do for another in a time of grief is to allow it to happen."

"We had that bottle half drunk when we heard the sirens. 'I had to call them,' I said. Or else you would have. If he needed to get mad at someone, it should be me, not the Scouts."

"Thank you."

"'I'll make sure the charges are dropped,' I said.

'I suppose I'll go back to home now,' he said. I didn't know if he meant California or his pink house, but I took that as a deal he was offering: no more trouble from him, in return for the changes being dropped. I suppose you know he bought the pink house back."

"Why do you think he decided to stay here?" Archie asks.

"Because she's here," Regina answers. "Or it's as close as he can be, to her. Did I do the right thing, releasing him? Is he going to be a problem?"

"Only to himself, I think." Archie makes some notes before continuing, "I'll keep an eye on him. Maybe I can help, if he'll let me."

"He needs work to do, but something meaningful," Regina decides. "Something only he can do, so he can't refuse it when I offer it to him."

"Something she would have been proud of."

Regina brightens as the same time I do. "The library needs remodeling. We had to close it after last year's snows crushed the roof in."

I blurt out, "The mage kids need training and support against bullies."

Amy shuts off the recording. "The mage kids?"

I wave my hand impatiently. "Kids who were born with magic. Especially ones whose parents don't know what to do with them. And _especially_ those who get picked on because they're different."

"Kids like you were."

I admit, "Kids like I was."

"Are there many?"

"Enough to keep a teacher busy. Even one as imaginative as Mr. Gold."

"Maybe you should get right to work on that, come Monday."

"Maybe I should go by the school tomorrow and observe what happens at recess."

Amy winks at me. "Don't get so busy you forget to take lunch tomorrow. Take a lunch to the bank, maybe. To share."

"He is a good guy."

As I stroll home, I find a daydream creeping up on me: Jo in a rocking chair, hefting a toddler in his big hands, and the two of them are grinning at each other as if they've never had a better time in their lives. I hear my voice coming from nearby: "What do you think she'll be, when she grows up?"

He looks over at me. "I can't guess, but won't it be fun finding out?"

As I come to the automated crosswalk and the mechanism cautions me to "wait, wait," I remind myself that it's only been four weeks; it's foolish to fantasize like this. Besides, fairies can't give birth. But in my daydream, I have the strongest certainty that I'm right there beside that rocking chair, and I recall something I read in the patient files, that in his cursed persona, Mr. Gold was a lawyer specializing in adoption. If evil queens can adopt, why can't fairies and bankers?

The crosswalk grants me permission to "walk, walk."


End file.
